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Ronni McIntosh Jul 2014
Despite your self-assured sense
of retribution,
violence begetting violence
is no solution.
It's true, though satisfying
violence may yet be,
joy in crying and dying
is awful, you see.
Try understanding the cause
of bad behavior,
their reasons will give you pause;
teaching you'll favor.
Ronni McIntosh Jul 2014
Such a lovely visage
burned in my mind even against
my own masculine desire
she sits smiling, waiting.
Perhaps she is more than attraction,
She means more,
the sweet idea of the tender
and powerful feminine
loving amongst themselves.
Her soft dark skin like
the warm life-giving Earth
like the strong bark of
ancient forests, blooming.
and like so many beautiful things,
too rich, too pretty to count.
Who is she but the love born
and risen out of death.
And who has died by the elders,
and those stone walls built
amongst races.
Don't we love to tear them down?
Ronni McIntosh Jul 2014
Bones are hard, hearts soft

But when old bones become soft

Buried in the ground

Beating hearts above grow hard.
Ronni McIntosh Jul 2014
There's a reason why
we call it being
being poor is like
running out of time
every few minutes
over and over
and the looming tasks
you cannot complete
are ever present
and threatening to
over your family
Ronni McIntosh Jul 2014
Soft creeping fingers
splay across hot flesh,
panting and pressing close.
This cannot mean more or different,
or less arousing, or less important,
no less needed or wanted,
to any one gender
The feminine desire is as natural,
alike to desires between women,
or between men, or beings, or more,
or any other unspoken desire, fetish, dream.
It is the same amongst races,
is as powerful and beautiful in all skin
in all places
It is not deterred or changed
with ability or intelligence,
with ignorance, with past experience.
Blunt as *** is, it does not see anything
but human meeting human
in righteous godly pleasure.
It is far from a pleasure
to take shame in
to control with indignant, religious fear.
Our bodies give gifts freely,
whether we take them or not.
Ronni McIntosh Jul 2014
I wrote a paper in school
  about ancient myths
using an old typewriter
  and by candle-light,
wrapped up in a comforter
  that cold winter night,
despite the propane heater
  in the dining room.
All of our utilities
  were shut off for months,
electric, gas, and water;
  we had no money.
We were getting food-bank meals,
  and making our own
candles out of reused wax.
  It felt pitiful,
and in the days leading to
  my paper due date
I was told repeatedly
  that it must be typed.
The school library was closed
  before my last class
ended, and we had some fines
  at the public one.
Here's a myth I often hear,
  though not learned in school,
party politics will say,
"They wanted handouts."
Ronni McIntosh Jul 2014
I don't think, sometimes
     before, or after, I speak.
And I'm only thinking now,
after hours of antagonizing myself,
and I know we'll have to speak,
maybe today or tomorrow,
but I think I deserve
for you to think sometimes as well.
I really hate being sorry when I'm not
and I really hate saying I love you
just so you can stare offfffffff
and ignore me.
And I really hate the
insinuations and suggestions
that your cold shoulders, sighs, and apathy send me
so that I do think, sometimes
       before, or after, you speak,
that maybe you don't care for my company
quite as much as I care for yours
       even if I know that's not true <3
Ronni McIntosh Jul 2014
I hate everything, Forever.

        (Everything, dear, includes you)

I want none of it, never.

Give me a room without files

and a page without numbers.

Maybe the computer screen’s

glow wouldn’t be so harsh,

in the morning haze.
Ronni McIntosh Jul 2014
I walked in the valleys of Kentucky

the wind pressing gently on my brow,

ghost orchids whispered from the shadows,

the thrush beating time on the ground.

Gently lilted songs in the

Ancient somber tone of trees,

forgotten woods,

I searched for your mystery, and delved

in caves so dark so deep.

Never will I know the world you kept

under dewy leaves so green,

ancient people fought and mined and died

only things the earth has seen.
Ronni McIntosh Jul 2014
My father's long fingers smooth
over the aged scratchy pleats.
The Kilt is magnificent. It has the
fleeting beauty that only a well
kept antique has, that warm
firelight glow of the past.
It has a few scuffs and holes,
but the somber reds and greens of
clan Mackintoish have settled into
the cloth and darkened pleasantly.
The kilt is always the most important detail,
it has passed from grandfather down,
and it looks as handsome now
as in the sepia photographs on our shelves.
The dirks black ornate hilt rests
heavily against his hip, and the
belt is cinched tightly to hold it up.
you can practically hear bagpipes
My grandfather's dark green cotton socks
sit near the top of my father's calf
and he leans over to adjust the frills.
And as his tan wrinkled brow furrows
in concentration, and his admittedly
attractive white whiskers scrape
across his collar, and the image
nears completion, the drum beats louder.
Reaching up from the ancient past
and grasping the future in tradition,
the ghosts of ancestors enter his poise,
and he suddenly appears less like
my father and takes on the swagger
of a cocky fisherman, of pirate.
He is swinging swords
and playing pipes, and cobbling, and
setting stones upright in ancient
forgotten ritual, and tossing cabers.
I know looking at him now,
what my own ghosts will be
when my time comes.
Ronni McIntosh Jul 2014
O feminine Ideal! O soft sigh!
round girth of life, gently swaying!
Singing round faces preparing
voluptuous feasts, swinging swords.
Broad freckled shoulders
shining with labor in the sun!
Women's work! The work so honorable,
noble, brave!
She is life-giver supreme!
"**! Look here!" She shouts
with voice so powerful
She shouts to her husband, to her wife,
to her children, to her fields
which she has sown,
to her home and castle,
to her father and brothers.
"Look here! See my strong arms,
my legs and hips, my belly and *******,
my hands and feet and flowing hair!
Tend these as I were a goddess,
for all that I gift you!"
Leap to her, quickly! Her demand
must be met with passion
And body blinding like armor in sunlight,
only she may wear it well, Only she
is trained in the weapons her body yields.
Ronni McIntosh Jul 2014
Does evil change? Does it mean
something different to
each passing generation?
I rather think it doesn't
but instead wears some
dark mask to disguise hatred.
Looking into the future
it sees a people
who have abandoned their fight.
Subdued by unfortunate
laws and happenstance,
disappointment is normal,
until the cruelest evil
is met with a sigh
and casual acceptance.
Take heed that circumstances
that appear to have
improved beyond improvement,
are most dangerous to those
who are still oppressed
by lingering prejudice.
Ronni McIntosh Jul 2014
Walk softly, she said, softly
on hearts around you.
Your power crushes, your love
is unseemly, your tender eyes
behind yellow teeth and make-up,
your gifts are petulance,
and your own heart,
your own quiet beating drum,
passion-beat ceased long before
under the heavy tread,
the power protecting, the dreamy love,
the hard eyes behind white teeth, gnashing
the giving of precious priceless gifts,
not given freely,
and the loud thrumming incessant hum.
The masculine muscle, throbbing,
beating proudly, smugly,
handsomely sometimes.
It weeps for you and itself,
Carved of it's own destruction,
as it tends to be.
Ronni McIntosh Jul 2014
Her lips were red
red like passion
red like plastic cups in dark rooms
red like tiny pills and flushed cheeks
red like the soft folds of rose petals,
freshly bloomed and cut.
red like sirens flashing, blinking fast,
hot white fire burning.
red like the glow of coals, after.
red like ink, signed papers,
red wet tongues lying.
red, at last, like a gaping wound,
in an open wide,
red beating heart.
Ronni McIntosh Jul 2014
I feel it here among us, aching swell of time

departing, creating, folding

tucking away old memories

like used up wash cloths

wiping clean, minds meant for tomorrow

Or are you like me and so many,

we feel this gasping and fading breath of the past

as the world around us pulls away?

the great and imposing field,

life-time, life-past

looming mercilessly in our dreams.

Those who did not wish to be left to eternity

are kept forever in the dream-art

of philosophs.

Are we as well meant to perish under the heaving push

of human expansion?

I wouldn’t think so!

This calamatus nature, it cannot help but grasp

at it’s own beautiful creation,

such that we all are.
Ronni McIntosh Jul 2014
My hair stands on end
and I tip over, spilling
into the sky and down
into the dirt.
The stage explodes inwards
in colorful bursts,
black and white bears
strumming and growling
in a cymbal crash
a thunder clap
a tap-dancing
madhouse jamboree.
The threatening noise
through the hills
and climbs up inside
until I fly out of my body
straight up into the heavens
with a sigh,
a soul release.
Ronni McIntosh Jul 2014
Crisp and soft, the grass meets my
naked feet
sliding in calm between toes curling
in the damp earth beneath.
My ******* feel heavy, pulling me down
to meet my mother.
She smells strongly of sod,
like mountains.
I will sink into her slowly,
It takes a whole lifetime.
And she will rebirth me,
and not even notice.
Ronni McIntosh Jul 2014
What of our dark American tome
can we read to our children?
Will they sleep to slave-cries
and tear-gas?
Will they someday play the game
cops and hippies?
Will they understand words like
"peace" or "love"?
Or will they become funny catchphrases
of a bygone era?
Will their culture be hewn of
plastics and contracts
or the red-brown earth?
Will justice become a name and
no longer an idea?
Ronni McIntosh Jul 2014
Sister-love, I cannot say how it should

move alone, though all else with it imparts

upon two.

These two beings from the same growth,

molding each other lovingly so that

they might see more clearly


Earth-love, for what else should I love but you.

The one, being so generous in all causation

and particulates,

becomes mother and executioner to all at once,


Friend-love, laughing joyous rapture.

You cannot know me for all my secrets,

but why should it matter? I do not learn

your own.

The only rubric enough for this profession,

is silence without companionship.

Food-love**, oh you speak pleasantries to my body.

Such a tactile energy, emmersive motions!


recycled and recycled and recycled, as it was

once for you as well, ever infolding in on itself

in perfect ingestion.

Our movements have fed each-other, in such a

base and satisfying way!
Ronni McIntosh Jul 2014
Behind closed eyes, wispy arms
close gently around her,
timid arms for timid girls,
Her *** aches, but has no carnal knowledge
Arms are not enough now,
neither whispered love.
In the night, wispy arms,
move to hips
strong hips for strong actions
girlish dreams were never enough.
Shame has no place
in this feminine gift.
This is a coming of age poem about girls feeling ashamed of their own bodies while they are trying to make sense of emerging sexuality.
Ronni McIntosh Apr 2016
If I were watching you now
sat at your lap
desk bare and clinical
like your sharp eyes,
if I were watching you now
I think I would look right into you
and I would see the war scars
that you buried in orderly dysfunction
and raging fits of tidiness,
I don't think you walked away
from those burning screaming
German towns bearing your name.
You ran. you ran hard.
back to your horses and simple fields,
back to a life that was entirely too chaotic
in its gentleness.
Ronni McIntosh Dec 2015
I tried so hard to be happy.
It felt, at times, lucidity,
like dreaming and then awaking,
remembering reality,
that peaceful dream would never be.
Ronni McIntosh Jul 2014
You laid down and went to sleep

and did not wake up

betrayal couldn’t keep you


How many years were you gone

misty-eyed in dreams

pretending to love others


I don’t believe for one wink

that any lady

danced through you the way she did,

my lovely grandmother Ray.

— The End —